The Darkness Grows
by Russingon5eva
Summary: The fate of the dispossessed is never pleasant.


What are we now? We started as avengers, but somehow I doubt we succeeded in that purpose. We wrought destruction and havoc upon those who were deemed enemies, but it seems that even one mistake would cost us our purpose. One misdeed would tarnish our house. And more than one grievous misdeed was committed by the House of Fëanor. All the good we could ever do was overshadowed by what everyone knew we had done wrong and what we would do again should destiny decree the situation to rise again. We were sworn to demolish all those who stood in our way, regardless of alliance, or familial or racial bonds, or morality. This was what we would be forever doomed to bring to pass. Our penitence will never be paid and there are many who are pleased with that fact. To them, I must question the blindness of such statements. I have been told ours was a "necessary evil" and had we not led the way, Morgoth's grip on Arda would've remained permanent. How is that good? In what way would that have benefited anyone save Morgoth himself? Lesser fools, who condemn without second thought. They are blind. I do not hold myself blameless for my actions in the First Age, but for most of them, neither am I ashamed. There were mistakes made, and large ones, I do not deny this. But in comparison, how could they be enough to warrant such punishment as my brothers and I have received? I dare not consider what our father must be enduring if this is the payment demanded from his sons. Is this truly our due? Or are we simply scapegoats unaware of their true purpose for we know only the blame. At least I do not lie bound like some of my brothers, though some might consider my mere existence in this plane a bondage. The lot of the Houseless is an unpleasant one in itself, made only more unpleasant by the knowledge that my family is suffering.

It is raining once more; I cannot feel it. The rain merely passes through my being and the only sensation the water gives me is far from pleasant. The Living suffer from no such unpleasantries and the young waste no time getting into the rain. I watch the elflings from my perch in a tree at the edge of their playing field Two or three adults are supervising them, but none of them seem interested in getting more wet than they have to. The Chief-counselor of Rivendell – Erestor, not Raustfinwë anymore – is pulled out into the rain by a warrior whom I cannot help but recognize as Glorfindel of Gondolin. They are laughing and for a minute, my eldest nephew's eyes pass through the tree and find mine. He stops for a moment as if he can see me, though I know he cannot. Such are the terms of my punishment. Than he shakes his head as if to clear it and turns away. I allow a sad smile to grace my face for a moment before forcing it away once more. At least he has managed to escape the effects of our curse. He is lonely, true, but it is a loneliness more or less of his own making - subconsciously all the same – and his time of being alone is nearing its end. He at least will survive to return home one day. The rest of our house cannot claim the same ending.

His dark hair – for once unbound – is soaked through and sticks to his even more soaked robes. Though; he doesn't seem to care. When Glorfindel's eyes turn away for a brief moment, he turns back to my tree and finds my eyes again. This time, he holds my gaze until Glorfindel touches his shoulder and he turns away reluctantly. Somehow, he can sense that I am here. If I had had a heart, it quite possibly would've jumped at the thought. He cannot see or hear me, but his fëa senses the presence of a family member. He doesn't look back at me again, but more than once I see him turn as if to look for that elf he knows is there, but then catch himself and look pointedly away. He is successful in avoiding the tree where I am situated, but his cheerful mood has evaporated and Glorfindel – if no one else – isn't fooled. They head back inside and I watch them go, making no move to leave or follow. I simply stay put. Some foolish part of me wants to leap for joy and attempt to converse with Raustfinwë, but the rest of me knows it would be folly. He is reacting to the closeness of a fëa he once knew so well. I have not had the opportunity to change much; being dead; but he remains living and so has changed much since he let, vowing never to return and disowning the family name. He was wise. He got out of that disaster before it was too late. He is free of this curse. Still, I do not envy him. Maybe his lot is better, but it depends on what angle you are viewing our situations from. He is burdened down with the knowledge of his truth. He was born a fëanorian, however much he would wish to deny it. Of those he now consorts with, only he knows, but one soul is enough and there are a few others still living who would most likely recognize him as the son of Makalaurë. He has tried to hide that fact and has succeeded, but as I watch his life, it seems he grows more and more tired. No one sees it, but he is letting the darkness slowly consume him. I hear the names they call him and wish I still lived, if only to teach them a lesson. He hears and knows what they say, but does nothing. They do not truly appreciate just how valuable he is; they do not even realize at all. Imladris would fall apart should he disappear unexpectedly just one day and yet… How far we have fallen. If father could see us now, I wonder what he would think to see his house – his sons and grandsons – in such ruin and pushed to such lows.

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Headcanon time yay! So, unless this wasn't clear, I have developed a rather complicated backstory for Erestor because he doesn't have any, and in short, he's Maglor's son. He also has a twin sister, but that's not important. Also, the POV is Celegorm's. Again, complicated headcanon, this for the feanorians' fates. He's one of the Houseless not by choice. This idea was brought on by a certain story somewhere on ao3. I can't remember what it was called, but it was good.


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